


Taking Stock

by dirao



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adopted Children, Divorced Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Divorced Hermione Granger & Ron Weasley, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Happy Birthday Mister Potter, Harry Potter's Birthday, Harry's Birthday, Not Quite Epilogue Compliant, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25656073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirao/pseuds/dirao
Summary: Harry turns forty, surrounded by plotting children and a wife who should have been a Slytherin, and he's probably going to fall off a broom before the day is over. What do you get the man who has everything he wants?You keep him wanting.(This is a day late and a few sickles short to be part of the "Happy Birthday, Mister Potter" challenge, but sometimes owls get lost with the post, and presents arrive a bit later than expected.)
Relationships: Hermione Granger & Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 76
Kudos: 225
Collections: Happy Birthday Mister Potter





	Taking Stock

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer - Characters belong to JK Rowling. I'm just taking them out to play, but will put them back. 
> 
> \- - - - - - - - - - -

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, taking stock.

Harry does this every year, on his birthday. He pushes his hair up and then lets it fall back into messy place, an hour before sunrise. Sometimes he looks weary, as if the weight of the world is still all on his shoulders, even if that hasn’t been the case for many, many years. Sometimes he looks tired, too many hours on the job and, according to the Daily Prophet, too many children.

Today, he thinks he looks old. There are wrinkles at the corners of his mouth and eyes. There is a streak of grey hair solidifying into existence just above his scar. His scars, all of them, have gradually faded, to the point he is sometimes surprised to find them staring back at him in the mirror.

“So this is forty,” he whispers at the mirror. The mirror shrugs back at him. He sighs.

He splashes water on his face and looks up out of the tiny window. Daylight is still an hour away.

There is a soft knock on the bathroom door. “Harry?” the voice asks.

“Yeah?”

“Are you alright?” the voice asks again.

Harry opens the door and finds Hermione in her sleeping t-shirt, the one that used to be his Holyhead Harpies t-shirt. He steps out and kisses her forehead. “I’m alright.”

She narrows her eyes at him, somewhat amused. “You were doing that thing.”

“What thing?” he asks, defensive.

“That thing where you look yourself up and down in the mirror on your birthday and then get broody.”

“I do not get broody.”

He looks at her face. Some of the same wrinkles he has, he can also see on her face. But he doesn’t regard them as signs of age. He sees the soft lines on the corners of her smile and thinks about all the times he’s made her laugh. He watches the silver hairs that weave between her auburn curls and finds it comforting, how they catch the light.

She swats his arse with her hand and he steps aside. “I love you and it may be your birthday, but if you’re not brooding, I really need to pee.”

She closes the door behind her and Harry drops back onto his bed, waiting for the sun.

/ / / / / / / /

“Let him sleep,” he hears a voice say, small and plaintive.

“Come on, we have to give him his present,” another replies.

The sun is barely out now, but he’s learned that sleeping past seven in the morning is a miracle. And miracles hardly ever happen on his birthday. Still, he keeps his eyes shut and pretends, because that is what fathers do.

“Shhhhhhh,” adds a different voice.

“You shhhhhhh,” counters another.

There is a thud and then a spilling of feet into the room and yet some more shuffling. He peeks one eye half open, then closes it again before they see him and discover that he is awake. More shuffling, then an extra set of feet, heavier footsteps this time.

“I told you to wait for me,” the new voice says, deeper.

“We couldn’t wait, Teddy, he has to go to work soon,” the first voice adds.

“Alright. You ready?” Teddy asks.

Shuffling and mumbled agreements.

“On the count of three, one, two,” Teddy starts, and before he reaches the number three someone has already jumped onto his chest.

Harry opens his eyes and finds almost-four-year-old Ali climbing on him, her nose inches away from his, her big brown eyes coming in and out of focus. “Can you see me, daddy? You’re not wearing your glasses.”

Teddy hands Harry his glasses and smiles down at him. “Happy Birthday,” he says, holding his arms wide gesturing towards the rumble behind him. His children.

James rolls his eyes. At seventeen, he stands tall and ready for his last year of Hogwarts, and he has teenage angst written all over his face, as he tries to hide a smile. Rose, fifteen, full of red hair and kind eyes, holds one end of the banner, while Artie, twelve years old, holds the other. Artie’s glasses resemble Harry’s, but that is where their resemblance stops. His copper skin stands out against the very white bedsheet that they’ve appropriated from somewhere in the house to make a banner that reads “Happy 40th Birthday.” Lily, who is almost eight, has been tasked with holding the gift and is bouncing up and down excitedly, her jet-black hair flying all around her.

He sits up, lifting Ali from his chest. He glances back at the door to Hermione, who’s been standing in the doorway this whole time, watching them all.

“We should sing now,” Lily suggests, looking over at her mother.

Hermione smiles. “By all means.”

The chorus of discordant voices in various stages of puberty and the high pitched off-key fumblings of the younger children join together in a memorable rendition of Happy Birthday where Hermione is the only one who joins in to sing “Harry” instead of “Dad” or “Daddy” or “Da”.

He claps happily along with the second time they sing it, faster and faster, until they do it so fast that Ali can’t keep up and just falls over on the bed laughing. Harry sneaks a glance at Hermione, who looks delighted. “You’re mad,” she mouths at the kids, grinning widely.

Lily pushes the gift onto Harry’s hand, and a new chorus of “Open it! Open it!” breaks out as he laughs. He tries to say thank you over the loud voices, but it gets drowned out.

The box is carefully wrapped, and Harry tears into it with no regard for the ornate paper and ribbon. He is, at this moment, as much a child as he ever was. His birthdays, in spite of the mirror’s opinion of his age, have gotten better as years have passed.

As soon as the box is unwrapped, it changes size and shape until he finds himself in front of the box for a brand-new broom. He raises an eyebrow. In the last few years, he’s gotten an array of undesirable but well-meaning gifts from the kids: a barometer, a coffee pot, a dial phone, a shapes-to-your-head foam pillow and a very surly cat that everyone in the house barely tolerated but that Hermione loves. This is probably the first gift that he genuinely likes, even though…

“I haven’t been on one of these in years,” he whispers. He looks up at the expectant crowd and smiles widely. “Thank you.”

“So…” Artie says, pushing his glasses up his own nose. “Will you show us?”

“Show you?” he asks, confused.

“How you won the house cup that year,” James says, matter-of-fact. “We’ve all heard the story.”

He wonders which story they heard.

He regrets nothing, because James and Rose wouldn’t be here if it were not for their past decisions. He doesn’t regret kissing Ginny after the House Cup, or marrying her after the war, or having James; just as Hermione does not regret her years with Ron, or Rose’s freckles. He doesn’t regret their friendship becoming more complicated over the years, or the divorces, however hard they were. He does not regret their small wedding, their family dwindling and then re expanding as the wounds healed. He does not regret their story, or the roads that led them here, or their smaller children, in all different shapes and sizes and colors and backgrounds, each so very much their own.

Fate had been kind to them, even if it didn’t work out exactly as they had once thought it would.

“I… I don’t know how to do that anymore, not really,” Harry says, but the expectant faces seem too eager to let them down. “I could try?” he wonders, his eyes fleeting over to Hermione, who shrugs kindly.

“I’m really good at mending broken bones now,” she says, gamely.

“After work, then,” he says, smiling at the kids.

“Yayyyy!!!!” Lily and Ali cry out. Artie looks up at James excitedly. Rose looks over at her mother with a conspiratorial smile.

Teddy sighs with a maturity that he does not usually exhibit. “Come on,” he says, dragging the motley crew out of the room. “Let’s get out of his hair for a bit.”

Teddy lifts Ali up from the bed and carries her out with her head hanging down, screaming delightedly.

Hermione tightens the belt on her robe and quirks a smile at Harry.

He lifts an eyebrow. “You let them get me a broom?”

“When have I ever been able to influence their gifts?” Hermione asks. “A barometer. Really.”

“I know they asked you first,” Harry asserts. He lets the broom fall to the side and walks over to Hermione. “Admit it.”

Hermione looks up at the ceiling. “Alright. They may have asked me and I may have chipped in.” She huffs a bit, but holds her hand out to him. “Are you still brooding?”

He takes her hand and pulls her closer. “Not brooding. Not exactly.” He kisses her cheek gently. “I really don’t want to go to work,” he whispers in her ear, sending a shiver down her spine.

“The faster you go, the faster you’ll come back,” Hermione says. She looks up at Harry and he is lost. He kisses her softly, because he knows deepening the kiss won’t do. There’s the kids (maybe too many) and there’s work and there’s being an old man. She sighs softly and pats him on the chest.

“What about my present?” he ventures, feeling brave and crooking an eyebrow in what he hopes is a seductive move.

She laughs softly. “Tonight,” she says, her hand softly moving down his chest to his belly, then lower, raking her fingers over his cock. He hardens instantly as she slowly strokes him through his trousers once, before letting her hand drop.

He groans softly. “That is unfair.”

“Life is not fair, you should know that by now, at the ripe old age of forty,” she says, her voice merry. She leans in to Harry again, and whispers in his ear, her breath hot against his neck. “But, if you are very good, I might be very good to you.”

He tries to capture her mouth but she pushes him softly away. “Part of being good is going to work, you know.” She glances down at his erection pressing against his trousers. “Maybe you should take a shower.”

He takes a few deep breaths as he watches her walk away, curls bouncing as she calls the kids round for breakfast.

/ / / / / / / / /

Harry steps out of the shower, slightly frustrated but composed, and dresses quickly. He swings by the kitchen where Teddy is flipping a cheese toastie. Hermione is sipping her tea quietly but gives him a knowing look. Just for that, he bends down to kiss her, under the protest of the younger children who think it’s yucky, and James’ eyerolls. Hermione tastes of tea and sugar and the taste of her lips lingers.

“Have a good day, Daddy,” Lily says, beaming as he kisses her hair. He does a round of the whole table, kisses for the girls, hair ruffled for the boys.

“Can I get a ride into Diagon Alley?” James asks, looking a bit more cooperative than his usual sullen teenage self.

Harry nods, exchanging looks with Hermione, who raises her arms in defeat.

Teddy hands Harry half a cheese toastie, and grins, his hair turning a violent shade of pink. “Happy Birthday,” he says, presenting the toastie as if it were the Crown Jewels.

Harry bites into it and swipes Hermione’s tea, takes a big gulp and hands it back. “Let’s go, I’m already late.”

“You always say you’re late, Dad,” Artie says.

“We’re doing cake at six, Da,” Rose calls out after him. “Grandma and Grandpa Weasley are coming, and Dad and Aunt Ginny said they’d stop by, too. Please be on time.”

“Uncle Nev and Aunt Luna are coming too!” Lily adds.

“AUNT LUNA!” Ali repeats, clapping delighted.

“I’ll be here,” Harry calls out, mouth half full with sandwich as he rushes out and into the car, followed by James who is not stepping up the pace one bit.

/ / / / / / / /

The car ride into London is quiet, because James is not a great conversationalist and Harry is not a great driver. But it is his birthday and he’s driving his son and he will damn well ask questions. At least that’s what he tells himself a few times over before actually opening his mouth then closing it like the koi fish in the pond outside the Ministry.

“I just need to buy a couple of things,” James says, volunteering the information.

“Oh?” Harry says, taken by surprise. He swerves slightly as he tries to look over at James. “Please don’t go into Knockturn Alley, your mother… Hermione… actually, for once they will both agree and kill me.”

“I’m not an idiot, Dad,” James sulks.

“I know that, James. I…” He sighs out. “I’m sorry. I just meant… be careful and if you want you can come into the office later and floo back from there. I know you can apparate now but…”

“I should practice shorter distances so I don’t splinch myself,” James says, in the singsong manner kids do when repeating their parent’s admonishments. “Mom and Uncle Ron are coming, Rose said. You heard her, right?”

Harry nods thoughtfully. He thinks he knows where this is going. Their divorces had been civil if not friendly, and the friendships they had were fractured by the proceedings. Ron had said at the time that he would never forgive Harry, perceiving his divorce as a betrayal to Ginny and to their friendship. Then his separation from Hermione had made Ron bitter. Harry had, in an act of stupidity and bravery alike, asked Ron for his blessing before asking Hermione out on a date. He had not given a blessing. Thankfully, he had not cursed him either.

He had hexed him, though, a bat bogey hex wrapped in a very convoluted reasoning of defending Ginny’s honor and his own.

Harry had spent two hours in the shower washing off the bat bogeys and then had gone for a walk and somehow ended up on Hermione’s doorstep. He’d knocked on her door and when she’d opened the door, frazzled after a day of shepherding a toddler, he’d kissed her, no asking her out on a date, no waiting. And she’d kissed him back.

It was, in a way, all Ron’s fault.

“Yes, I heard that,” Harry says, after what he feels is a very long time.

James fusses with his seatbelt, anxious. “Is that going to be alright?”

“We see your Mum and Ron all the time. At Christmas and birthdays,” Harry reasons.

“At the Burrow. Mum never comes in to drop me off. And Uncle Ron’s never been, we always take Rose over to his house and pick her up.”

Harry is surprised by the clear evidence that James presents. This is all true. He is astonished that James has put it together when he clearly hasn’t been able to.

“You’re right,” Harry admits. “I think it’s going to be fine. Maybe it will be better than fine.”

“Did you really cheat on Mum with…”

“NO!” Harry wildly turns the wheel as he turns to look at his son, then thinks better of it and grips the wheel tightly. He pulls over on the side of the road and stops the car. “James, that’s not what happened.”

“Okay,” James says, but Harry knows it’s not ok.

Harry rubs the back of his neck and thinks for a second. “We’ve always been close, Hermione and I. You know that. We grew up together with your Mum and Ron and we were best friends. At some point we realized that we… We loved each other. But we never… James, you have to believe that I loved you mum when we married, when we had you. But we married so young and we grew up and became very different people. I guess the same happened for Ron and Hermione. And we found something in each other that… It was never about cheating.”

James seems to nod softly. “Did Mum curse Hermione so she couldn’t have any more kids?”

Harry wants to both laugh and cry at this. “No. That didn’t happen either. Where did you… even hear something like that?” He knows no one in the family would say such a thing. He must have heard it at school.

“I had to do a research project. We looked at old issues of the Daily Prophet.”

Recognition dawns in Harry’s eyes. “Damn buggers.”

“Dad, language,” James says and Harry laughs loudly.

“Yes, sorry,” Harry replies, half-mocking. “After Rose was born, Hermione was very very ill. It was a difficult pregnancy and she lost a lot of blood during childbirth. The healer at St. Mungos told her she wouldn’t be able to have more children of her own. To give birth, I mean.”

“Oh,” James says.

It’s not a secret, but no one has ever asked before. James has been there for every adoption and now Harry understands that he must have wondered.

“When we married, I knew this. We had you and Rose and you have always been perfect and enough. But we wanted a bigger family, I didn’t have any brothers and sisters and your… and Hermione didn’t either and we loved the noise and the friendship that we saw in the Weasleys… And we thought, we’ll look.”

“And then you went to the orphanage and there was Artie, staring at you with broken glasses,” James says, because this part of the story he knows by heart. “And Lily who just jumped into your arms, and Ali who was just so small and who was abandoned because they’d thought she’d be a squib.”

“Yes. Exactly.” Harry sighs softly. “I love you. I know you hate it when I say it, but the day you were born is one of the happiest days of my life. Ginny and I were the happiest people in the world when you opened your eyes for the first time.”

James looks at him with wide eyes for a moment, before regaining his teenage composure and looking out the window. “Whatever, Dad.”

Harry snorts. He starts the car back up.

“Try not to get us killed on your birthday,” James mutters. “I really wouldn’t want to explain that to Hermione.”

/ / / / / / / / /

Harry drops James off at Diagon Alley and drives down closer to the ministry, parking somewhere between the Ministry and his small office. He walks the short distance and unlocks the door, letting himself in. He’s there before anyone else arrives and he’s usually there after everyone else leaves. The small office is a sanctuary and he likes to think of it as the small business that lives on the fine line of the Statute of Secrecy.

He is a Muggle liaison.

A very good Muggle liaison.

It had been a bit of a scandal, his divorce, his subsequent marriage. But it had been looked at as a betrayal of sorts when he left the Auror Department at the Ministry and decided, against all odds, to open a small business that everyone else saw as futile.

Now he opens his door and people file in. Some look for advice for their muggle-born wizard children’s education, others look for solace while working through muggle-wizard divorces. Others still seek understanding for their squib children, help for navigating a magic-free life in a magic-filled family.

It had been through his work that Ali had entered his life, then Hermione’s and finally the entire family’s.

Harry raises the blinds and lets the sun in through the windows that line the front of the office. He lights the fireplace, sorts through the owl post and regular post that have arrived earlier. There are birthday cards and some business letters, a stack of mail-order catalogs and a wrinkled copy of the Daily Prophet.

He still gets the paper, even after all the lies printed and the insinuations. He needs to keep tabs on the Ministry goings-on and up to date on regulations and frankly, he still does quite like the word puzzles and has gotten better at Sudoku.

He isn’t surprised to find his face on the front page, some picture taken in September last year when he took the kids to meet the Hogwarts Express. There’s James sulking in the background, Rose hugging her mother tightly, Artie clutching Harry’s hand. Lily and Ali sitting on Artie’s trunk. There is another picture of his younger self, right beside the first picture: his scar ablaze, his eyes filled with anger.

The headline is, as always, not very creative. His divorce had been “Potter-Weasley Split”. His marriage to Hermione had been: “Potter-Granger: From Tryst to Altar”, which was not only daft but also riddled with lies. There had been no tryst, no illicit kisses. And they had most certainly not married in a church, choosing instead to marry in their backyard. The adoptions had been portrayed with equal disdain by the press, to the point that Harry had actually responded by presenting their family in an exclusive interview with The Quibbler, with pictures of the kids, just so the Prophet wouldn’t get any readers that day. And today, the headline reads. “Potter turns 40! Will the Boy Who Lived experience a new mid-life crisis.”

“I hope not,” he whispers to himself, and bins the damn rag.

Ash and Paula walk in a few minutes later and go on about their work cheerfully, giving him short birthday greetings. Paula slides a cookie over to him with his tea, which he takes as a present. Paula and Ash are both reserved, but good workers. Ash is a squib with knowledge of both Muggle and Wizarding law, and Paula is a Muggle-Born witch with a Beauxbatons education. They make a good team but socialize very little, and Harry is quite sure it’s his fault. He loves the work but his off-time is spent mostly with his family.

It’s well past noon when James appears at the door, bearing two shopping bags from shops that Harry doesn’t quite recognize. Paula and Ash both greet him excitedly, fawning and fussing over the kid in a way that Harry knows James enjoys, though he’d never admit it. He is quite different from Harry in some ways, mainly his enjoyment of being the center of attention. He is, in many ways, quite like Ginny. The teen angst, however, is all Harry. Harry gives James a half-smile and James just rolls his eyes.

“I came for the floo,” James says, to no one in particular.

Harry raises an eyebrow hopefully. “Do you want to have lunch maybe?” he asks.

James opens his mouth to say something smart, no doubt, then closes it again, thinking better of it. “Yeah, actually. Hermione said she was making the green soup today.”

“And the green sandwiches?” Harry asks.

James nods.

“Not even for my birthday,” Harry mutters. Once a week Hermione puts her best-intentions hat on and makes overly healthy food. Green everything. “Bacon sarny?”

“Please,” James enthuses.

Harry smiles and motions with his head towards the door. “Let’s go.”

/ / / / / / / /

Sometimes, when he looks at James, it feels like looking into a magical mirror. He is so like him, it makes him shudder. The slouch, the knitted eyebrows. The unbridled enthusiasm for a bacon sandwich and dark, over-sweetened tea.

Harry eats pensively, chewing slowly and thinking back to their earlier conversation. He is worried, though he tries not to show it, but he has to ask. He never has been one to take the cautious or circuitous road. He’s not starting at forty. “Have you been angry at me? At Hermione?”

James looks up from his plate and a few crumbs fall out of his mouth. He narrows his eyes in question, the shakes his head now.

“It’s just…” Harry starts. “I don’t want you to think… badly… of Hermione. I know it took you a while to be able to be ok with all this.”

“No it didn’t,” James says, and there’s a hint of fury in his voice.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never called her anything but Hermione. You didn’t speak to her for a whole year. You would just stay in your room. I marked the days on the calendar.”

James blushes. “I was stupid, Dad. I didn’t talk to Rose or you either, for about half that time. Then I got hungry,” he admits. “Is she still cross about it?”

“She was never angry. She was sad, I guess. I know she wishes you got along better.” Harry doesn’t quite know where this is all coming from. He hasn’t had a conversation like this with James before. Maybe this is what ageing entails. “She loves you, you know that, right?”

“Of course, I know that. Don’t be daft, Dad,” James says, looking around the room in hopes no one has overheard the conversation. “I just don’t know what else to call her.”

Harry sighs. “What do you mean?”

“Mum is already mum, I can’t call her that, and she used to be Aunt Mione but that’s not right either and it’s been twelve years, I can’t just start calling her something else. She’ll think I’ve gone mental,” James states matter-of-factly. “But I like her. She’s… she’s helped me with my summer homework.”

“You had summer homework?” Harry asks, confused.

“I… uh…” James stammers. “I almostfailedpotions.”

Harry tries not to choke on his tea. “Why am I just hearing about this?”

“Hermione promised she wouldn’t tell you if I worked hard during the summer. Which I did.”

“And your mother?” Harry insists.

James shrugs. “She doesn’t fuss about my marks.” He takes a big gulp of tea and swallows. “I also didn’t tell her.”

“Is this why you wanted to stay with us this summer?” Harry asks, understanding now.

James shrugs. “You’re going to tell her?”

“I have to, James, you know that. I’m surprised Hermione didn’t already.” Harry sighs and bites the inside of his mouth, trying to contain his disappointment. James has seen it fit to trust Harry, for once, and this has probably been the longest civil conversation they’ve had in years. Harry misses being his son’s hero, something that went the way of rubbish when he divorced Ginny. Now he’ll settle for having his son’s respect and love.

“I know,” James whispers. He stuffs the last of his sandwich into his mouth and swallows. “Can I still stay with you the rest of the summer?”

“Of course you can, but just… not to avoid your Mum. Stay with us because you want to.”

“I like it, the Godric’s Hollow house. I like hanging out with Artie. And Lily and Ali, and Teddy and Rose.”

“You do?”

“They’re cool,” he says, pretending to be cool himself and looking away. “Don’t tell them I said that.”

For a minute, Harry feels the weight of his age in the maturity his son is displaying. He wants to hug him from across the table, knocking down everything in between them. But he lets his son have his coolness. There will be time for hugs later. Maybe with cake.

“I have to get back to work,” Harry offers, giving him an easy out. “Let’s go so you can floo through.”

/ / / / / / / / /

The rest of the afternoon is spent in a flurry of paperwork and a short meeting with a woman who cries every once in a while. She is a Muggle divorcing from a Wizard, with two small children who’ve displayed magical abilities, and she’s sad and disappointed and worried.

“I worry they will miss out on being part of the magical community,” she says, wringing her hands.

Harry has learned that his experiences and those of his friends are great guides for helping his clients. He tells him about Hermione, raised by Muggles, and her experiences in the magical community. And he tells him about his adoptive family, the Weasley’s, and how they welcomed him. “Once they go off to Hogwarts they’ll have so many friends to share the magical world with, and you’ll be able to give them something else, a different perspective.”

The woman seems to be soothed by his words. She smiles softly. “I read in the paper that it’s your birthday today, Mr. Potter,” she says, her eyes kind. “You should be home with your family.”

Harry gives her a crooked smile and nods. “I will be soon.”

“You’ve done so much for us, muggles and muggle-borns and squibs, navigating this world of magic. You deserve some time to yourself,” she chides, and dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I will tell you this: I’ll miss my husband using magic to clean the house. I’m not looking forward to scrubbing the tile floors.”

Harry gives her a soft laugh and is rewarded by another smile. She stands to leave, clutching her purse and giving him a curt nod. “Have a happy birthday, Mr. Potter.”

“Thank you, Ms. Morton.”

He watches her leave, a little taller than she came in, and glances over at Paula and Ash, who look at him pointedly. “Go home, Mr. Potter,” Ash says, making him feel a bit older than he should.

“Harry,” he says, correcting Ash for the hundredth time.

“Go home, Harry,” Paula adds, with an eyeroll very much in tune with his teenage children. “You only turn forty once, and the problems of the world will still be here tomorrow.”

He glances at the clock on the wall, and it is already four. He hates flooing but he’ll happily avoid the traffic today and apparate. He nods and gathers his things, waves goodbye to them, and disappears from the office.

/ / / / / / /

He never quite manages to apparate into his own backyard, and has to walk about ten minutes through the quiet streets of Godric’s Hollow towards the house. He knows he’ll get a stern look from Hermione for just leaving the car parked on the street, but he’ll manage.

When he gets to the house, he realizes he’s early and that the kids will be pleasantly surprised. He walks in through the backdoor and finds the kitchen bustling with motion, food being prepared left, right and center. The whirr of activity is centered around Molly Weasley, who smiles widely at Harry as he walks in. After the divorce Molly kept her distance for a few months, gauging both Ginny’s and his feelings. But James was a stronger pull, and she could not stay away long. Neither could she stay away from Rose, who everyone secretly knew was the favorite among her grandchildren. And so she had gradually accepted the new reality of Harry and Hermione, and had also taken their adopted children into the fold, until she was Granny Molly all around.

Rose is handing her things and chopping, obviously not allowed to intervene in the actual cooking process. She sets her knife down and smiles. “Da, you’re early,” she exclaims, and gives him a wide smile.

“Happy birthday, dear,” Molly adds, letting her large wooden spoon rest on the edge of a pot and giving him a strong hug. She looks frail from a distance but is as sharp as ever. “Arthur’s in the living room with Artie, they have some project going. Here, taste this,” she says, making her way through the kitchen and holding out the large spoon to him. It’s some kind of peach sauce, he supposes, what it’s for he’s unsure of, but it’s marvelous, scented with cinnamon and oddly tangy.

“That’s wonderful, Molly,” he enthuses. He looks around but finds that Hermione is nowhere in sight. “Hermione?”

“She’s upstairs getting the girls ready,” Molly points out, making a face and pretending to do her hair. “It’s all very serious business.”

Harry smiles. He gives Molly a kiss on her hair and makes his way to the living room. Arthur and his namesake are building a complicated lego structure and he’s almost sure he catches Arthur’s wand spelling something into it. It looks like a rocket and Harry thinks he might need to have a talk with Arthur about sentient lego rockets. Artie waves at Harry excitedly. James is watching the telly absently. Harry takes the stairs.

There’s a flurry of activity upstairs, Ali running towards Lily’s room wearing nothing but socks. Hermione catches her and drags her back to her room. “You’re early,” she says, running by him flustered.

“So everyone keeps telling me,” he says, following her into Ali’s room and watching her wrestle their youngest into a violently yellow shirt.

“Daddyyyyyyyy!” Ali exclaims. “I already pooped today.”

Hermione gives him a “And then there’s that” sort of look and Harry laughs. “That’s good, but maybe not something we want to share with the people who visit us.”

“Ok,” Ali shrugs, and heads back out in her t shirt and underwear.

Hermione sighs and just gives up, sitting on the edge of Ali’s small bed. “I’ll get her into her trousers in five minutes. Just five more minutes.”

Harry sits beside her on the tiny bed and threads his fingers through hers. “Rough day?”

“Medium rough. Sand, not gravel,” she says, leaning back until she’s lying on the bed. “If Molly wasn’t here you’d be eating spinach with a taper for your birthday.”

He drops back on the bed and looks at her face as she stares up at the ceiling. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright.” She squeezes his hand and turns to give him a soft smile. “Marianne called. From St. Mungo’s. They have an opening. I said I’d think about it.”

“And?”

“And I had started to think about it when Ali decided to do nude-birthday.”

Hermione’s work has been a touchy subject for the past few years. She’s wanted to go back but Ali’s still so small and gets into so much trouble. But she’s going into preschool this year and Harry knows she’s been thinking about it much more often. Maybe he can scale back his hours.

“You should do it.”

“A nude birthday? It’s Arthur’s fault, that is, he tried to explain the concept of birthday suit and things just went south from there.”

“Take the job. You miss it, I know you do.”

“It starts next week, Ali and Lily don’t start school for another month. And… I don’t know.” She sighs. “Has it been five minutes?”

“Not quite.”

She closes her eyes for a second before Lily’s voice rings out. “Mum, Ali needs to use the bathroom!”

“I thought she pooped already,” Harry says, amused.

Hermione shoots him a sideways glance. “Don’t get me started on her false poop proclamations.”

/ / / / / / /

Everyone is mostly dressed and down stairs a few minutes before six, as the guests start to arrive. Molly’s food is on prominent display on their large table that has been cleared of homework. The sun is still out and will be for a few hours, the never ending summer days have become Harry’s favorite. He remembers hating summers as a boy for having to spend them with the Dursley’s. He loves them now, the house full of voices and feet thumping up and down the stairs.

He knows Rose lied to him and cake will be at eight, not six. He knows this because Kingsley and Andromeda are very punctual people and they arrive half-past six. Harry smiles at Teddy’s blue hair being ruffled by his grandmother.

James appears out of thin air and hands Harry his brand-new broom, under the watchful eye of Hermione. “Uh, I think I should probably stay to greet the guests.”

“You promised,” Artie says, his eyes hopeful.

“So I did,” Harry mutters under his breath. “Alright. But it’s not as much fun to fly alone.”

“I’ll go,” Teddy offers.

“Me too,” James adds.

“Need one more?” a voice calls from the door. Harry turns his neck almost too fast and is surprised to find Ron holding a very capable broom. “Rose said I might need one,” Ron adds.

Harry’s not sure what the etiquette is. He wants to hug Ron and shove him at the same time. He half-expects getting punched or hexed. Maybe this is better. “The more, the merrier,” Harry says, and they head for the backyard.

Harry looks back to Hermione and catches Ron kissing Hermione’s cheek gently, a small hello, and handing her a bottle of his home-brewed Butterbeer. He tells her something and she laughs with genuine amusement, then squeezes his hand, nods, and softly pushes Ron towards the door. Harry looks around the room and finds Rose staring at them delightedly, having never in her conscious memory seen such a friendly interaction between her parents. Rose catches Harry watching and gives him a knowing smile.

Seeing Ron walk into the house as if not a day has gone by feels both strange and appropriate, Harry thinks, and drawing lots for who gets to pick teams seems familiar.

“Quaffle-only two-on-two?” Teddy offers.

“Chasers are Keepers,” Ron accepts.

“Two out of three?” Harry adds.

“I get Teddy,” James calls, holding up the longest piece of grass in his hand and choosing this precise moment to make good decisions. Harry wants to laugh at that, but only nods.

He looks over to Ron and Ron looks back to him. It has been twelve years of driving children back and forth to each other’s houses, of awkward Christmas lunches and silent Sunday roasts. Ron just shrugs.

Maybe this is also what forty looks and sounds like. Like old friends.

They kick off the ground and take a few minutes to fly around the perimeter of the yard. The broom is so new it takes its time getting used to him. Harry is, in turn, hoping that his muscle memory will remember how to do this. He hasn’t flown in years and, looking down, he can see the expectant eyes of his smaller children, Lily holding Ali’s hand as they both stare up at him.

Artie has his arms in the air, pointing up at Harry and tugging at Hermione’s sleeve. Hermione bends down to talk to Artie. Harry wobbles slightly on the broom and shakes his head. He has to focus, he thinks, or he’ll fall off his broom and no amount of stories, legends and old Quidditch Cups will allow him to live that down, especially in front of James.

James and Teddy will have first possession of the Quaffle and even if it’s hard, Harry has to look at Ron to figure out what their next move should be, or they’ll be squashed by two children.

“Back in the saddle again,” Ron yells over the cooling wind.

“What?”

“Something I saw on the Telly!” He grins. Harry smiles back.

“So… Strategy?” Harry asks.

“Divide and conquer?” Ron suggests. “I can tackle Teddy.”

“I’ll fight James for speed,” Harry adds.

Ron rolls his eyes. “Don’t fall off, you git.”

“You don’t fall off, you sod,” Harry says, a grin spreading on his face.

“Just bloody fly,” Ron says, swerving towards Teddy.

Harry does just that, leaning down closer to his broom and picking up speed, like a complete madman. He’s quickly upon James, effectively blocking him from getting a pass, and Ron manages to block the goalpost from Teddy. Ron gets possession of the ball, and tosses it to Harry, who barely manages to get it past James and past the floating goalpost.

For a moment he feels fifteen again, playing with Ron, celebrating. And it’s short lived as Teddy flies past him in whirl of motion and blue hair. He also has something to prove, Harry thinks, as Victoire walks out from the kitchen followed by Bill and Fleur, and they settle into the large swing seat.

Molly and Arthur sit on the stone steps watching them. Harry looks away and chases after Teddy, and James chases after them both, leaving Ron to play Keeper as best he knows how. They fly around in circles and eights, bobbing and weaving, James trying to block Harry, Harry attempting to block Teddy.

Harry is sweating, his hair sticking to his forehead, his shirt plastered to his back and this is fun and he forgets why he stopped doing it so often and just as he’s about to swerve to a stop and feint at Teddy, he feels the broom decide otherwise and it jerks. James flies past him and catches the Quaffle from Teddy and scores. Ron swears loudly and Lily covers Ali’s ears down on the ground. Ron tosses the Quaffle at Harry but he doesn’t manage to catch it, and James is once again at the goal. This time Ron does get it, and passes it again to Harry, who manages to get it and throw it with all his might. He misses, and Teddy gives the Quaffle an artful whack with his broom, back to James, and another goal is scored.

Ron gives Harry a knowing look and raises his arms. “I think we should just concede.”

“It would be the honorable thing,” Harry agrees. The broom is too new and he is pointedly older than the last time he attempted this, and he really does not want to break a bone on his birthday. But he feels adrenaline pumping and his heart racing and he knows he has missed this and wants to do it more often. Looking back at Ron, he knows that Ron feels it too.

It’s been too long.

They move in to land and Artie and Lily and Ali excitedly mill around Teddy and James, the victors. Rose, however, heads straight to Ron and Harry and gives them both a hug, one arm around each neck, and Harry can feel a tear soaking through his already wet and filthy t-shirt. “Rosie…” he whispers, but she backs away and wipes her eyes as if nothing has happened.

With a very red nose she looks at both Harry and Ron and says, “You were both brilliant.”

Another red head pokes out from behind Rose and gives Harry a wide smile. “You were,” Ginny admits, placing a hand on Rose’s shoulder. “But my son was much better,” she adds.

Harry feels the sudden urge to hug her but she takes a step back. “You are both sweaty and disgusting and you will stay away from me,” Ginny declares. Ron pretends to try and touch her face with his calloused dirty hands, and Ginny punches his arm. Rose drags Ron away and Harry is left facing Ginny, who shuffles her feet.

Harry laughs. “You came,” he breathes out. “Did you see us lose miserably.”

“Yes, I did. It reminded me who the real Quidditch star of the family is,” she says. “Me.”

“Definitely,” Harry concedes. He shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “James was a bit nervous about all this,” he blurts out. “I mean…”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “I know what you mean. It’s just… When James mentioned it, I started to think…”

Harry looks up at all the guests milling back into the house. It will be cake soon, and he doesn’t want to make them wait. But his eyes catch Hermione’s gaze and she relaxes, gives him a small smile that tells him everything will be alright. And so he lets them all go inside and hangs back. Ginny’s hair is short and a brighter shade of red than he remembers. The sun is getting closer to setting, and every bit of light catches a glare in his glasses and he can hardly see.

“It’s been a long time, and we’re both missing out stuff in James’ life because we’re stubborn and we hurt each other and…” She snorts, and Harry knows the next part will be good. “And you’re not getting any younger and I don’t want to hold a grudge and watch you die of old age before we’re friends again.”

“I’m not that old, Gin,” he counters, but she’s laughing at his expression of concern.

“You have gray hair,” she points out. “And five children, six if you count Teddy who has apparently moved in.”

“It’s temporary,” Harry explains. “Flats in London are too expensive and he won’t take my money or Andromeda’s”

“Sounds like a stubborn man I know.”

They’re close to the door now and he pauses just a few feet away. He’s still gripping his broom, he notices, and it’s a crutch to help him get from the past to the now. “Thank you for coming.”

“You should thank James. And Hermione. They cooked up this whole thing,” Ginny sighs. “Also, did you know James almost failed potions?”

“He just told me today,” Harry groans.

“Hermione told me when he came back from school. Asked if you could keep him over the summer to set him to rights. Should have known it was her idea,” Ginny says. “He’s too much like you. It will be a problem, eventually.”

“He’s got your temper,” Harry points out.

Ginny punches his arm. “Happy Birthday, Harry.”

And she walks in the door, leaving him to rub his upper arm for a minute before following her in, towards good food and firewhiskey and friends.

/ / / / / / / / /

“You smell,” Ali points out when Harry bends down to pick her up and sits her on his shoulders.

“So do you,” Harry counters, and she bursts into a fit of giggles. He’s a bit buzzed from the firewhiskey and full and content.

He’ll be sweaty and dirty in the birthday pictures this year and he doesn’t even care. Bill dims the lights of the living room and dining room, and Hermione and Molly walk out of the kitchen carrying the largest, most-fragile-looking treacle tart Harry has ever seen. The blaze of candlelight coming from the tart fills the room with a warm glow. Forty candles, he knows it’s forty candles. They rest the tart on the table and flank him, Hermione placing an arm around his waist. Molly clapping loudly to get the birthday song started.

It is dark and warm and everyone he loves in the world is here. Luna sings as she spins Lily around. Neville claps out of rhythm with everyone else and Ginny rolls her eyes and takes his hands and makes him clap to the beat. Ron sings the loudest, his voice booming over everyone else’s. Teddy hugs Victoire as they sing.

The song stops and he closes his eyes and blows out the candles, wishing for nothing more than a long life of this. When he opens his eyes he feels a warm glow above his head.

And silence.

He looks up and between Ali’s hands there is a bluebell flame, as real and solid as anything in his life has ever been. It’s there, for an instant, and then it’s gone.

Harry’s eyes are wide, wider even than Ali’s, who hoots and laughs.

Harry looks over at Hermione and her eyes are filled with tears, but she blinks them back and laughs and holds out her arms to bring Ali to her. She dismounts from Harry’s shoulders and Hermione hugs her tightly. They had wished and hoped and accepted that maybe she wouldn’t have any magic and that would be ok. But this was so much more than they had hoped for. The silence is interrupted by laughter and cheers and Ali is passed around from one grownup to the next and he’s almost afraid they’ll encourage her too much and the entire house will be engulfed in blue flames. Hermione buries her face in his shirt and he wraps his arms around her and kisses her hair.

James and Rose stand shoulder to shoulder, laughing merrily, and Harry understands now a month or more of conspiratorial glances. This is his birthday gift, he thinks. His children have given him back his friends. And it is more than he could have ever hoped for.

/ / / / / / / / /

It is almost midnight when the house is finally quiet. Ali falls asleep in Arthur’s arms sometime around nine, and Lily marches herself up to bed soon after. Bill, Fleur and Victoire leave and Teddy gets to say only a quick goodbye under Bill’s watchful eye. Artie is shepherded to his room by Teddy, Rose and James, who each go to their own rooms with tired eyes. Hermione’s parents leave soon after, followed by Andromeda, Kingsley, and Luna.

Their guests trickle out in small groups, with promises of see-you-soon. Harry hugs Ron and Ginny at the door with more relaxed smiles and the threat of a Weasleys vs Potter game after Sunday lunch at the Burrow. Neville leaves with Ginny, giving Harry a nervous glance that Harry tells himself not to think about until the morning.

He turns out all the lights with a flick of his wand, leaving only the glow of the small bluebell flame on the stairway to guide his way.

Once upstairs he lights the tip of his wand and walks from room to room. He checks in on Teddy first, his light is still on and he’s reading and he gives Harry a little wave, the tips of his hair turning a brighter shade of blue. Rose is already asleep and she snores softly, something she evidently inherited from Ron but a few decibels lighter. He’ll thank her in the morning, when she’s alone, so she won’t blush in embarrassment.

Lily clutches her stuffed dragon and sleeps peacefully. Ali has all but the top of her head covered by a quilt and Harry takes a moment to lift it, just to check that there is nothing burning between her hands. The last room before his own belongs to James, and the light is still on, he can see it through a crack in the door. Harry knocks.

“Come in,” a tired voice says. Harry walks in and sits on the edge of the bed, and James sits up. “Dad?” he asks.

“Thank you,” Harry says, placing a hand on his son’s hair and ruffling it unnecessarily.

“Dad!” James protests, tilting his head away. “It was Rose’s idea.”

Harry rolls his eyes at his son and sighs. “Just… take the thanks, James.”

Harry looks around the room and his eyes fall on the bags on the floor. “What did you get?” he asks.

James gives Harry a wry smile and jumps out of the bed and takes the bags. “Promise you won’t tell, ok?”

Harry nods.

James dumps the contents of the bags on his bed.

“These are for Lily and these are for Ali,” James points to each of the boxes on the bed. They’re magic sets, Muggle magic sets. “They sell these in Diagon Alley, at Uncle George’s shop, it’s like, a joke, you know. But, well, they can’t really do magic for a few years and I thought they’d like them.”

This time Harry doesn’t resist the urge to hug his son tightly, and even though James struggles with the awkwardness, he allows it.

“I’ve just… I guess I never spent too much time with them, I was already at Hogwarts when Lily and Ali moved in and I just… I kind of don’t hate them.”

Harry laughs. He takes his son by the shoulders and gives him a soft smile. “I’m very proud of you.”

“Even if I fail potions?”

“You won’t fail potions, but yes, even if you fail potions.” Harry stands to leave but notices an extra package on the bed. “Is that for Hermione?” he asks.

“Don’t tell her, ok?” James asks. “Promise. You always tell her stuff.”

“I won’t tell her. It’ll be a surprise.”

Harry runs his fingers through his hair and gives James a half smile. He watches James put the gifts away and with his lit wand, leaves the room.

/ / / / / / / / / /

His own room is dimly lit, a few bluebell flames in small jars. Harry locks the door behind him. The sound of the shower resonates behind the bathroom door and Harry puts out the light of his wand and rests it on the bedside table. Feeling brave, he opens the door onto the steamy bathroom and sighs. His glasses fog up slightly and he takes them off.

He peels off his shirt and unbuckles his belt, unzips his trousers and lets them fall to the floor. He lets his underwear follow and, stark naked and almost by instinct, he guides himself towards the door of the shower cubicle and knocks, even though it feels quite stupid to do so.

Hermione turns and opens the shower door and takes his hand. She guides him in and he can see her smile through the water. “You definitely need a shower,” she says, wrinkling her nose. Her hair is wet and her curls drip, heavy. Harry pulls her closer and he can feel his cock harden and jump as her hand wraps around it.

“Do I get my present now?” he asks, his hair getting in the way of looking at her thoroughly. He kisses the column of her neck, the edge of her jaw, and attempts to catch her mouth but she moves away. Her hand moves up and down his cock and he bites down on his own lip hard.

“Were you good?” she asks, stilling her movements. He pushes against her hand with a whimper.

“I was good. So, so good,” he whispers, taking her lower lip between his own, snaking his tongue into her mouth. She pulls back and her hands renew her slow strokes. He groans as she escapes his attempts to kiss her and she kneels, giggling softly. She takes him in her mouth, testing the weight of his cock on her tongue and Harry shudders at the feeling. She closes her mouth around his tip and slides it up and down his length. He buries his fingers in her hair and bucks into her mouth, his head tilting back until it hits the tile wall. She takes him deep in her mouth and Harry’s mind gives out and all he can say is yes and more and please and ohgod and Hermione.

He moans loudly as she flicks her tongue around his tip and then takes him again, deeper, and he feels the tension coiling in his back as her hand follows her mouth, her other hand gripping his hip, his arse. “I’m so close,” he rasps out and he is, the edge is there, he can taste it, like the metallic tang of his broken lip, and he forces himself to open his eyes and look down and she is beautiful and she takes every inch of him and he cries out as his release builds and breaks, spilling himself into her mouth, his eyes shutting tightly.

When he opens his eyes again, Hermione is on her feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and he pulls her into a deep, ravenous kiss, tasting himself as he rakes his tongue over hers. “You’re a tease,” he says, softly against her mouth, as she backs away.

“It was just one week,” she replies, her smile devilish. “An experiment.”

“One week of wanting you is not an experiment, it’s torture,” he says, but the edge of frustration is absent from his voice now, and he takes his time. The water is running warm now and he cleans himself and turns off the shower. He considers a drying charm but thinks better of it and takes a towel from the rack and wraps it around Hermione, then takes another for himself.

“You do realize time moves at exactly the same speed for both of us,” Hermione points out.

Harry raises an eyebrow at her. “A, that hasn’t always been true, and B, you were in control. That changes things.” He grabs his glasses and pulls them back on, Hermione’s nude body coming into focus.

“How so?” she asks, using the towel to dry her hair and leaving herself exposed.

Harry smiles like a devil. “I can show you,” he says, letting his own towel fall to the floor. He is already half-hard again, thinking of the many, many ways he can return the favor. He pulls her close to him, drops of water still dripping from her hair and down her belly.

“Harry,” she says, eyes narrowed. “Show me.”

And she allows him to kiss her, finally, and he moves them clumsily to the room, his mouth never leaving hers. He guides her to the bed and lets his eyes trace over her body, her wide hips, her heavy breasts, her hair leaving a dark spot on the quilt.

“Turn around,” he says, his voice deep with desire. She does as she is bidden, resting on her belly, propping her head on her hand. He leans down, sits and kisses her calves and feels her shudder in anticipation. She can’t see what he’s doing and that makes all the difference. He parts her thighs softly and peppers soft kisses there and moves higher up her body, giving her arse a small bite that makes her keen.

She presses her hips to the bed and Harry knows what she wants but this is a learning-experience, a lesson. His hands skate over her arse and he kisses his way up her spine, until his body is flush against hers and he brushes her hair aside until he’s kissing her neck, biting her shoulder. There’s a muffled moan and she brings a hand up to her face. Harry’s fingers brush her ribs, barely touch the side of her breasts and he knows her nipples are hard and expectant but he doesn’t pay any attention to them. He’s hard now, so very hard, and he leaks against her back as he nips at her earlobe.

“Harry…” she pleads, and he turns them both on their sides, his fingers brushing her lips. She needs more, a playful bite of his thumb tells him so, but he ignores it, ignores every instinct to give in.

His hand moves down her throat, the rough palm against her impossibly soft skin, and between her breast, once again brushing just past her hardened nipples. She arches back against him, her attempt to coax him closer, to feel his cock jump. “Harry, please…” she begs, but it’s more out of frustration than actual need. At least not yet.

He licks a long stripe up the side of her neck and she shivers. “How about you? Were you good today?” he asks, and at last pinches one nipple, hard.

“Fuck,” she gasps, and Harry can feel his cock jump at the sound of her voice just saying the word. She’s fighting him, biting her lip down hard. Harry knows her, so many years, and he knows she’s dying to reach back and take his cock in her hands, but she also knows he is a man on a mission, and she won’t get what she needs if she doesn’t behave. “Harry…” she drags out as his hand moves away sliding against her hip, his thumb dipping into her navel.

“Have you been a good girl, Hermione?” he asks, his fingers dipping lower, to her wet curls, lower to her slit, tracing it with one hard knuckle.

“I…” she starts, her hips bucking forward trying to get closer to his hand as he moves it away.

He smiles and presses his cock against the curve of her arse. “What do you want?” he asks.

“I… want… you…” she mutters, her face buried in her pillow as his finger traces her once more.

“Good girls say what they really want,” he says, heady with anticipation. He nudges another finger at her entrance and slides it in just a bit, then draws back. She’s so very ready and she groans at the loss of contact as he draws his hand back, flat on her belly.

“I want you to fuck me,” she says, and he pinches her nipple again, drawing a low whimper from her throat.

“Good girls get what they want…” he whispers again and he can feel his cock jump against his belly. “Tell me…”

“I’ve been good,” she begs. “I’ve been very, very good.”

“What do you want?” he asks again, swiftly moving her body until she’s on all fours, exposed to him, her dripping cunt beautiful on display.

“Fuck me, please,” she begs, and he knows now that like he did just a few minutes ago, now she needs him, desperately.

He brushes the tip of his erection against her slick opening and bites his lower lip as he sees his cock disappear inside her slowly. “Mhhhm,” she says, incoherent against the pillow, her elbows barely supporting her weight.

He pulls back and takes a breath. “Fuck,” he mutters, pushing back in with a restraint he’s never known before. Torture, he’d called it, and she’d denied it. So now he’d show her.

He pushes in, just a little deeper, then pulls back, fully aware that he’s torturing himself as well.

“More,” she moans, “Please.”

His hips buck forward, instinct taking over, and he pushes in so deep that he can feel her at the hilt. She lets out a guttural sound and he knows he’s giving her what she wants and she’s so full. “Fuck, yes,” she says, pushing back against him.

“You’re such a good girl,” he whispers in her ear, and he thrusts into her again, drawing a soft cry out of her.

He grabs one of her hips and sets a rhythm that is punctuated with her half words, half moans, until she comes hard, crying out his name and collapsing onto her elbows. It only takes him two more thrusts until he spills inside her as well, her name a harsh whisper on his lips.

Their breath is labored, and Hermione laughs softly under him as he does his best not to collapse on her. He waves his hand and mutters a couple of half-arsed cleaning charms before he drops on the bed beside her.

“Alright, evidence points to torture,” she admits, and she lets Harry pull her onto his chest, their legs tangling. “Happy birthday,” she giggles. “And thank Morgana for Silencing Charms.”

He kisses her sweaty forehead. “I love you and you will be the death of me.”

“If everything hurts tomorrow, you can blame Quidditch,” she says, lifting her head to look at him. “Are you happy?” she asks.

She’s asking about his birthday, but also about Ali, about seeing Ron and Ginny again, about flying.

“It’s been a perfect day,” he whispers. “James talked to me.”

“Oh?” Hermione feigns innocence.

“I know what you did.” He bends down and kisses her softly. “Thank you.”

Hermione shrugs. “He’s smart, he just… flies off the handle. Doesn’t help that Draco is the Potions professor now and that James looks exactly like you.”

“Draco and I get along just fine now,” Harry replies, a bit of resentment in his voice.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying that I’m sure James knows exactly what buttons to push.”

Harry sighs. “I know what you mean.”

They lay in silence for a few moments, their breaths steadying.

"I'm going to take the job," Hermione declares, confident.

"You should."

"You'll have to work fewer hours. We'll have to leave the girls with Molly," she says, worry creeping back into her voice.

"We'll manage."

She gives his hand a quick squeeze. "I really need to work again before my mind starts to melt into the sheet music for Baby Shark."

"Baby Shark is so last year."

Hermione snorts and Harry laughs, and they both start singing "do-do-do-do-do-do" at the same time.

And Harry knows that this is it for him. This is happiness: Hermione giggling as she hums the Baby Shark theme song, her whole body moving and jiggling, as his kids all sleep safely a few feet away. They dance along to the song in their heads for a minute before letting it go.

“So,” Hermione finally says. “Does this birthday make the top 5?”

Harry nods softly. “I think it’s solidly in the top 3.”

“If you still have 'getting kissed by Ginny when you were seventeen' in that top 3, you’ve got another thing coming,” she says, elbowing him on the ribs.

Harry glances at the clock on the bedside table. It’s almost three in the morning. It is officially no longer his birthday. “I am officially old.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Do shut up, I’ve been forty for months now.”

“Yes, but you’re not old, you’re beautiful.”

She slaps him with her damp pillow and laughs.

She gets up and heads to the wardrobe, then pulls on a large quidditch t shirt and a pair of knickers. She tosses Harry a pair of pyjama trousers and a tshirt as well. “You should get dressed. Ali fell asleep so early she’s bound to walk in any minute now.”

Harry nods. He gets up and goes to the bathroom, dressing along the way, jumping up on one trouser leg as he pulls on the other. Hermione laughs and flicks all the lights off.

Harry looks at himself in the mirror, taking stock. But he gets distracted, and through the reflection of the open door, he can see Hermione settling into bed, her arm under the pillow, her hair still soaking the fabric of the pillowcase through and through. He catches his eyes in the mirror, focused through his glasses. He is forty. Every gray hair and every scar and every wrinkle tells him so. He not only survived, he lives, and he vibrates with the knowledge that he has everything he’s ever wished for and more. He gives himself one last glance in the mirror and, as he heads back to bed, he hears the soft footsteps outside the door, the gentle knock, and the sleepy little girl pushing the door open.

“Daddy?” Ali asks.

“Hi Ali-bear,” he whispers, picking her up.

“Can I sleep with you?”

He carries her over to the bed, letting her settle between himself and Hermione. Ali snuggles up close to her mother and there is a fraction of a second where he’s almost sure a blue glow seeps from Ali’s hands, but it’s gone in an instant and she falls asleep in under a minute.

Harry sighs and pulls the covers over himself. He smiles, thinking of the man in the mirror, the man he’s become. He thinks about how his knees will hurt tomorrow, how his sons beat him at Quidditch, how his wife knows exactly how to get him riled up, how his daughters are probably plotting against him as he drifts off to sleep…

And he thinks that getting old isn’t so bad after all.


End file.
